Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (18 page)

“The princes said that, too. Then, one night, we hear it scream, see it set the plains on fire. Fire shows for miles.”

Rowen thought back to the Battle of Lyos, when El’rash’lin and the Nightmare had destroyed each other. There had been no bodies, but Silwren had sworn she’d felt El’rash’lin die. Later, at Rowen’s insistence, she’d entered a trance, trying to feel the Nightmare’s presence. She’d emerged from the trance certain that the Nightmare was dead, too.

Could she have been wrong? Or is he describing Chorlga?
Rowen gave the Dhargot a hard look.
Or is he simply lying?

Rowen tapped Knightswrath’s hilt. A Shel’ai would have been able to pry into the Dhargot’s mind and know whether or not he was telling the truth. Rowen was no Shel’ai, but there was still a way. His pulse quickened as he remembered the rush of intoxication he’d felt when he called upon the sword’s power to kill that Olg. He willed the adamune to let him know whether or not
the Dhargot was telling the truth. He did not know if it would work with the blade still sheathed. But a moment later, he jerked as memories that were not his own tumbled into his mind. His vision blurred, as though he were momentarily seeing the world through two pairs of eyes at once.

He reeled, almost losing his balance. One of the Sylvs caught him, but Rowen pulled away. As quickly as it had begun, it was over. Rowen found everyone staring at him.

The Dhargot looked somewhere between bemused and frightened. “Maybe you’re as mad as the Nightmare. Maybe I should have gone to Karhaati after all.”

Ignoring the Dhargot, Rowen turned to Rhos’ari. “He’s telling the truth… or thinks he is, at least. Let him go.”

The Sylvan sergeant’s eyes widened. “But, Knight—”

Faeli grabbed the Dhargot’s long hair and jerked his head back. “No way we’re setting him free.”

Rowen scowled. He faced Faeli and gave an appropriate answer in Sylvan.

Taking his cue, Rhos’ari interjected in Sylvan, too. “Knight, I think Faeli means to say that the Dhargots are our enemies. They allied with Fadarah for a time. They have taken our people captive. They have threatened
your
people, too. You came to Sylvos to secure an alliance
against
them. Besides, we need his horse. Why—”

Rowen waved him off. He gave Braanti a hard look. Thanks to Knightswrath’s magic, he knew what kind of man he was dealing with. Still, he’d been disarmed. They could not afford to haul a prisoner with him, and the Codex Viticus strictly forbade the execution of prisoners.

He’s no threat to us. If I let him go, he’ll be back in Dhargoth in a few days. But what will he do after that?

Rowen eyed Braanti’s necklace of ears. “Let him go,” he repeated in Sylvan. He gave Faeli a hard look. Finally, the Sylv cursed and stepped back, shaking his head. Rowen held up Braanti’s weapons. Then he took three steps away and dropped them on the grass.

The Sylvs exchanged looks. Braanti knelt a moment longer then scooped up his weapons. He sheathed his dagger but kept his sword in hand. “My thanks, Knight. I hope you die well.”

“I hope I do, too,” Rowen said. “Are you ready?”

The Dhargot blinked, confused.

Rowen drew Knightswrath and leapt forward. The Dhargot’s eyes widened. He managed to block Rowen’s first swing then his second. The Dhargot backpedaled, trying to draw his dagger with his free hand. Rowen slowed, giving him time. Then he charged. They locked swords. Rowen held then twisted sideways. He kicked the Dhargot’s knee, cut the dagger out of his hand, then sliced the head off his shoulders. Braanti fell before he could make a sound.

Rowen took a few deep breaths to calm himself, then stooped and wiped his sword clean on the Dhargot’s corpse. The smell of fresh blood filled his nostrils. A familiar pang of guilt swept through him. As he stood, he muttered a prayer in Shao. He saluted with his blade before sheathing it. When he turned, the Sylvs were regarding him coolly.

Kilisti said, “No flames this time?”

“Didn’t think I’d need them.”

Kilisti snickered. “How honorable. But would you have done that if you didn’t think you could take him?”

Rowen wondered the same thing as he headed back toward Snowdark. “Let’s get out of here. Faeli, take the Dhargot’s horse. He may have been trash, but his people know how to train horses. She’ll obey. Just guide her easy with your heels at first.”

Faeli answered with a gruff, begrudging nod.

Sergeant Rhos’ari cleared his throat. “Should we bury the Dhargot?”

Rowen shook his head. “If anybody’s following us, let him serve as a warning. If not, he can feed the crows.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Alliances and Distractions

J
alist hoped the long walk from the tavern to the palace would help clear his head. But in the three days since the Jolym’s attack, the streets of Lyos had not calmed. Citizens still roiled with panic, and what remained of the Red Watch had to patrol the city streets just to maintain order. Jalist remembered Rowen saying that in the wake of Silwren’s appearance in the Dark Quarter, mingling with the approach of Fadarah’s Throng, the Lyosi—normally so proper, even haughty—had actually rioted.

“That’s what comes from too many years of soft living,” he muttered. He lifted a wineskin to his lips. When he slowed to drink, one of the guards shoved him, causing him to spill on his tunic. He growled a Dwarrish insult to the man’s parentage.

“Keep moving, sir,” pleaded the officer tasked with bringing him back to the palace. The young man looked as nervous around Jalist as he did around the crowds. Jalist felt sympathy for the boy as he wiped his tunic.

“What’s the hurry? Last I heard, I wasn’t under arrest. If the king wants to talk, he can wait.”

The officer ordered the three men of the Red Watch he was commanding—none older than he—to walk ahead and clear a path through the streets. Jalist watched them, shaking his head. A moment later, a pickpocket pretended to collide with the officer then plucked a jeweled dagger from his belt, all whilst furiously bowing and muttering apologies. Despite his drunkenness, Jalist intercepted the pickpocket, retrieved the dagger, and sent the man on with a shove. He returned the dagger to the officer, who accepted it with wide eyes.

“I don’t suppose I can stop and change first.” Jalist inspected his tunic as he took another drink. “I know the wine matches the color, but I like to look my best when I chat with royalty.”

The officer reached out and snatched Jalist’s wineskin. He threw it on the ground, grabbed Jalist’s arm, and pushed him onward. Jalist resisted the impulse to break the young officer’s arm. “Easy, lad. I’m not your enemy. In fact, I seem to remember something about
killing
a few of your enemies—if killing Jolym can be called killing, since I’m not sure the bastards count as alive.”

Jalist allowed himself to be prodded along but took the jeweled dagger from the officer’s belt as payment for the wineskin. “Any notion what your king wants to talk to me about?”

The officer scowled, though Jalist could not tell whether it was in answer to his question or a passing flesh trader who appeared to know him and called him sweetly by name. “Probably this morning’s council meaning, which you missed.”

“I knew I was forgetting something.” Jalist rubbed his eyes then perked up at the sight of another tavern, with a gigantic terrace and a multitude of young, pretty servers wearing bright sarongs. A sign proclaimed the tavern’s name, but all he could make out was the name of the god, Dyoni; the rest of the sign was obscured by a soft-eyed young man who caught Jalist’s eye and smiled.

“Listen, lad, if the meeting’s over anyway, how about—”

Before he could finish, the officer shouted at his men, chastising them for being too rough as they tried to clear a path through the streets. A moment later, the officer himself almost backhanded a merchant who strode up to offer an angry protest. Jalist changed tactics. He strode well ahead of the officer and his men so that they had to struggle to keep up. By the time they reached the palace, the poor officer had gone from anxious to livid. But the sight of at least fifty clerics to the various gods and goddesses descending the temple steps prevented him from berating Jalist.

“The king wanted to see you while he was still meeting with the clerics,” the officer said, aghast. “Best you go in before things get any worse.”

Jalist inspected his wine-stained tunic again but did not argue.

The officer turned him over to a pair of palace guards, who led him in. Neither spoke. Both seemed as tense as the clerics that Jalist had passed on the steps. The Dwarr had the odd feeling that he was being led to his own execution. But when they reached the great hall, the king stood and greeted Jalist with a terse smile.

“Lord Hewn, how good of you to finally join us.” He dismissed the palace guards then gestured for Jalist to join him at a great oak council table. The table was empty except for a buxom, red-haired woman in a low-cut dress. She’d risen when the king had, but the look she gave Jalist was anything but friendly.

Jalist looked around, surprised by how dark and empty the great hall appeared. In the distance, he could make out the shapes of gigantic statues of gods and goddesses, all cloaked in shadows. He thought he saw a flicker of movement near the statues but dismissed it, settling his gaze on Igrid. “I see you removed the bandages from your skull. I trust that was against the clerics’ warnings, though to be fair, it’s hard to seduce royalty when you have your head wrapped up in gauze.”

Blushing, Igrid glanced at the king then opened her mouth to offer an icy retort.

The king stopped her. “Lady Igrid is here at my invitation. I should add that, unlike you, she arrived on time.”

“Good for her.” Jalist took the empty chair to the king’s left, belatedly reminding himself not to sit down until the king had sat first. Then he seized the gilded cup in front of him and filled it from a nearby pitcher. He look a long drink. The wine tasted sour but strong, better than what he’d been drinking at the tavern. He took a second drink, started to set the cup down, then thought better of it. After draining the rest, he refilled it.

King Typherius’s smile thinned. “Slow down, Dwarr. I want you sober for this conversation.”

“Then I’m afraid you’re a few hours late,
sire
,” Jalist answered then took another drink.

Igrid snorted with disgust.

Jalist raised his cup, smiled at her, then faced the king again. “What can I do for you, m’lord?”

“First things first,” the king said. His voice took on an edge. “Allow me to fill you in on what you missed from this morning’s meeting. I was discussing strategy with my captains—”

“Was it a productive conversation?” Even though his cup was still half full, Jalist refilled it.

“No, not really. Between my father’s murder last year, Captain Ferocles dying in the Battle of Lyos, and Captain Epheus and most of the veterans dying in… whatever men decide to call what happened last week, I’m suddenly the most experienced commander at the table.” The young king grinned sardonically. “Not an enviable position.”

Jalist stared into his cup. “No, Sire, I wouldn’t imagine it is.”

“Did you see the clerics when you were coming in?”

Jalist nodded. “For scions of the gods, most of them didn’t look too happy.”

“That’s because half of them still think magic comes from Fohl the Undergod, and what I’m about to do will damn all our souls to his numerous hells. But I’m getting ahead of myself.” The king handed Jalist a tiny rolled-up bit of parchment. “This arrived by raven a few weeks ago… supposedly from the Wytchforest. I thought it was a joke at first.”

Jalist studied the script, realized the writing was too small, and pushed it aside. “What does it say?”

“That a Dragonkin named Chorlga has declared war on Ruun. The warning comes from Rowen Locke.” Jalist’s eyes widened, but before he could answer, the king asked, “Have you heard what happened on the Isles?”

Jalist started to take a drink but stopped himself. He nodded again.

The king glanced at Igrid then turned back to Jalist. “Well, in case you haven’t heard it all, I’ll give you the short version. Grand Marshal Bokuden is dead. The flower of the Knighthood was massed at Saikaido when the Nightmare appeared. Those Knights who weren’t burnt up like scarecrows in a wildfire were mowed down by the Jolym or driven into the sea.” He leaned back in his chair. “By your expression, I’m guessing you know what that means.”

Jalist shook his head. “Sire, my expression is that of a man who’s only drunk about half as much as he needs to. Don’t read more into it than that.”

The king hesitated. “I’ve heard… what happened at Stillhammer. What you must have seen…”

Jalist gave the king a look so icy that the monarch paled. Forcing a smile, Jalist said, “Thank you, Sire. I appreciate your kind words. Now, if we could get to why you summoned me here…” He hiccupped.

“Did you hear what I said about the Nightmare?”

Jalist started to refill his cup. “The Nightmare’s dead. We all saw it.”

“So we did.” The king took the pitcher from Jalist and filled his own cup. “Only the descriptions are exactly the same. Also, a few of the Knights who got away say they saw someone else with the Nightmare. Someone who looked like a Shel’ai but couldn’t have been, considering what he did.” The king raised his cup but drank more slowly than Jalist had.

Jalist shrugged. “One of Fadarah’s henchmen. Shade, probably.”

“They’re all fighting in the west,” the king said. “There are rumors of some kind of Shel’ai stronghold in the north, somewhere on the Wintersea, but I don’t think that’s where the Nightmare came from. And I don’t think that’s where this… other one came from, either.”

Jalist rubbed his eyes. Suddenly, he had a headache. “There were others. Other Shel’ai-turned-Dragonkin. Initiates, they called them. Silwren was one. So was El’rash’lin. And the Nightmare. But there were more. When I was with the Throng, they kept them in a separate tent.”

Typherius nodded. “I heard. Only they all died. Silwren said she killed them, by accident, when she woke. El’rash’lin and the Nightmare died outside Lyos.” The king paused. “There is something you should know, Dwarr. Before my father was killed, he was negotiating a trade alliance with your people. I continued the talks after his death. Both our peoples would have benefited. In another year or two, Lyos might even have been strong enough to shrug off the Isle Knights’ control. So, when I heard that the kingdom of the Dwarrs had been ravaged, I thought the Isle Knights might be responsible.”

Jalist thought of Rowen Locke and wondered what he would have said to that, especially after so many Isle Knights had died fighting for Lyos.

“But the Isle Knights can’t be responsible for the Jolym—or the Nightmare, for that matter,” the king continued. “That means someone else wanted to prevent an alliance between our kingdoms.”

Jalist rubbed his eyes again. He was having a hard time understanding what the king was saying. “So the Nightmare came back from the dead. Plus, there’s a Dragonkin and an army of Jolym on the loose, tearing up the countryside, and they don’t want any of us joining together. Is
that
what you’re saying?”

The king exchanged glances with Igrid. “I’m not sure I believe in the Dragonward. Everybody who’s been up north says they can’t see a damn thing. My father thought it was real, though. He said the Dragonkin had been driven away. They could never pass through that barrier and set foot on Ruun again. So either the Dragonward doesn’t exist anymore… or it never existed… or—”

“There’s been a Dragonkin hiding in Ruun all this time,” Igrid finished. “That’s a little hard to believe.”

Jalist noted that, although her voice had taken on a hard edge, Igrid finished by giving the young king a coy look. If the king noticed, though, he gave no indication. Jalist looked around the great hall and spotted four old men standing by the far wall, their arms crossed. He’d mistaken them for servants, but now he thought they must be stewards or advisers of some kind, though the king had ordered them to remain quiet and keep their distance. Their disapproval was obvious.
Are they mad about Igrid’s presence here or mine… or both?
Jalist lifted his cup and nodded to them before he took a drink.

The king said, “My scouts tell me that some of the Jolym marched back to Cadavash. The ones we drove off, that is. But the rest are still thrashing the Isles. When they’re done with the Knights, they’ll come here.”

“I guess they will.” Jalist faced Igrid. “Well, Iron Sister, best gather all your coins and your pretty dresses and sleeve knives and move on. That’s what I’m going to do. Anybody dumb enough to stay here deserves what they get.”

“Does that include me, Dwarr?” Before Jalist could answer, the king continued. “This city has suffered ten generations of extortion from the Isle Knights. Still, we didn’t run from Fadarah. We haven’t run from the Dhargots. We aren’t running now, either.”

“Fine. Well said, m’lord.” Jalist raised his cup again. “To a noble death!”

“Don’t mock me in my own hall, Dwarr.”

Jalist blinked. “Apologies, Sire. But if you brought me here to buy my counsel, I’ll offer it to you for free: get out. The Knights may have robbed you blind, but they were still your protectors. Now, they’re gone. The Jolym will come back. So will… whatever else is out there. And if nothing else, the Dhargots are still massed at Cassica. You have too many enemies, and you’re out of friends. Either run or pick the lesser of evils and surrender.”

Igrid gave him a look of disapproval. The stewards at the other end of the hall shook their heads in disgust. Jalist reached for the pitcher, but the king grabbed it first and moved it out of reach.

“You’re wrong, Dwarr. I have one friend left. And
you
are going to find her for me.”

Jalist set his cup down. “I’m what?”

“I need Silwren. She’s the only one I know of who might be able to help us. But she’s in the Wytchforest with your friend, Rowen Locke. So I’m sending you to find her.” He glanced at Igrid. “I’m sending
both
of you. Lady Igrid has already agreed.”

Jalist gave Igrid a hard look. The former Iron Sister’s expression was so dreadfully earnest that Jalist almost laughed. He wondered how much the king had offered her. “With respect, Sire, you should send someone else. Your new Captain of the Guard—”

“I
am
sending my new Captain of the Guard,” the king interrupted. “I’m sending you.”

Jalist was speechless.
No wonder everybody looks so peeved.
“I appreciate the offer, Sire, but I spoke in haste. The Captain of the Guard generally doesn’t leave his city on a fool’s errand on the eve of battle.”

“No,” the king conceded, “but I’m out of ambassadors, and these are strange times. Besides, by making you my captain, I’m giving you a reason to come back… unless you want to be strangled for desertion.” The king drained his own cup, refilled it, then did the same for Jalist’s.